


the rewards of surrender

by propinquitous



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Birthday Sex, Cock Warming, Daddy Kink, Explicit Consent, Intimacy, M/M, Married Life, Spanking, back at it again with the sentimental pornography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 19:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21214073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: Quentin decides to give Eliot something he's always wanted.





	the rewards of surrender

**Author's Note:**

> sweats
> 
> enormous thanks to portraitofemmy for all of the encouragement and beta reading; i would be a formless puddle without your help.

Quentin had not been one for birthdays since he’d spent his sixteenth in a locked unit. As a child, they’d mostly been simple things, an excuse to have sleepovers with Jules or convince his dad to buy books he didn’t need. After, they became reminders of the ways in which he was broken, and on bad years, that he’d survived another year. Even when it came to other people, he’d spent most of his young adulthood feeling vaguely bitter, occasionally jealous. He would never admit it, but part of him hated that other people could so easily celebrate their lives. His resentment held throughout college and even at Brakebills, where he studiously avoided the cottage during the last weeks of July.

This year had been different. He’d been exhausted, still feeling a little tender and not entirely healed. But he’d felt at home, cradled by Julia and Eliot, who had done exactly what he’d asked them not to and decorated the apartment, complete with streamers and mylar balloons; Eliot made a huge batch of something like rum punch, and Julia had harangued everyone they knew into board games and MarioKart. Despite Quentin’s anxiety, it had been a good day. That it had ended with a panic attack and Eliot kissing away Quentin’s tears hadn’t even marred the memory, because Eliot was there and alive and somehow, after everything, still wanted to hold Quentin close. It was the best gift he could’ve asked for.

When, three months later, Eliot’s birthday rolled around, it felt important that he feel as held, as treasured as Quentin had. So Quentin did his research, found a restaurant in the city so obscene that the prices weren’t listed online, and set a reminder to secure a reservation as soon as their books opened for October. He bought himself a new suit and had it tailored, excusing the expense as expensive gift wrap. Eliot would appreciate the opportunity to teach him to tie a full Windsor, he thought, and it would be an enticing appetizer as they dressed for dinner that night.

Quentin tried not to look too satisfied with himself as Eliot’s fingers traced lightly around his throat, as he slipped the knot tight under his collar. The gesture made Quentin sigh, like Eliot drew the breath from his lungs. It was so easy to relax into Eliot, in any moment, any context. Even so, he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to it. It felt too precious.

"Good?" Eliot asked, pulling on the end of the tie, testing.

Quentin smiled up at him. "Yeah, thank you. That’s perfect."

"Anything for you, baby," Eliot said, "especially after you made all this effort." He laid a kiss on Quentin’s forehead and settled his fingers on the thin lapels of Quentin’s jacket. Quentin watched as his eyes wandered over his shoulders and down his waist, taking in the cut of the suit and the way the fabric draped and settled on his body. He had the sense that Eliot was already imagining the best ways to get him out of it, how he would delicately undo each button and slip the jacket over Quentin’s shoulders with a particular finesse that only he could manage.

"Good present?" Quentin asked, biting his lip.

"Mm," Eliot agreed. For a long moment, he said nothing, seemingly transfixed in the way the jacket tapered, the way it suggested that Eliot might be able to get his hands entirely around Quentin’s waist, if only he were bold enough to try. "You know me so well, Q," he finally said, his teeth barely visible as he smiled.

Quentin laughed even as he shivered, trailing his fingers over Eliot’s belt. The ridge of it was slightly worn leather, softer than the shining flat surface. He tucked one fingertip in the space left behind the buckle.

"I was thinking," Quentin started to say, tugging the belt so that Eliot tilted toward him.

"No time," Eliot said quickly, broken from his trance. "You said our reservation is at seven." He grinned lasciviously and pushed Quentin's hands away, tapping his watch.

"I was _thinking_," Quentin insisted, "that we could do something fun tonight."

"Aren't we? I’d say you’re pretty well spoiling me." He thumbed at Quentin’s lapel as he spoke.

Quentin bowed his head, unsure if his coyness was entirely a feint. "Yeah, but, you know. Something more special. Something, you know, really birthday-worthy."

"Oh?" 

Quentin steeled himself, curled his toes tight against his soles. Of late, he’d been increasingly curious, some little voice in the back of his head itching to speak. What he imagined wasn’t something he’d ever expected to want, but here he was, offering himself up on a platter, tied and trussed and all. It was still so novel to him, that he had things worth giving. "Yeah, you know, if you're into it."

Eliot raised his eyebrows, questioning and playful. His hips canted forward.

"If you're into it, um," he paused and drew a deep breath, holding Eliot's gaze as firmly as he could manage. "Daddy."

"Oh," Eliot said, mouth a perfect, small circle. "_Oh._" For a moment, Quentin panicked, paralyzed with his eyes locked on Eliot's face. He felt miserably embarrassed and started to stutter out an apology, a _Nevermind, it was stupid -_

Then Eliot's hand cradled his cheek, somehow larger and warmer than Quentin had any memory of it ever being. "Hey, I can see all those gears turning. Slow down. I’m very, very into it."

Quentin felt like he swallowed the stone of a peach. He forced himself to keep his eyes up. 

"Yeah?"

"Very. Into it," Eliot said. He pulled Quentin forward by his tie. Quentin felt it go a little tight around his trachea and the imaginary pit he’d swallowed. "Did you have any parameters in mind?"

"I thought, I don’t know, I just, I want," Quentin felt everything he wanted to say sticking behind his tongue. He tried to remind himself that Eliot had never laughed at him, not when he’d confessed to the extent of his Fillory fan fiction library or when he recounted his terrible, awkward first times. He hadn’t said anything but encouragement when Quentin asked him to pull his hair, when he’d begged, mid-fuck, for Eliot to _please, tell I’m good, tell me_-

"I want to be good for you," he finally said.

"What does that look like?" Eliot said, tucking a loose piece of hair back behind Quentin's ear. His thumb traced over the shell of it.

"I want to be, um, I guess," Quentin swallowed the shame that threatened to burn his throat. "A good boy. _Your_ good boy."

Eliot took a final step toward him, so that their chests were almost flush. His hand moved from its place near Quentin's ear to the back of his neck, fingers pulling gently at the shorter hairs at his nape before extending to grasp firm and tilt Quentin’s face up to meet him.

"You want to be a good boy for daddy?" Eliot asked. It seemed so natural to him, the steady tone of his voice and the way he held Quentin’s neck just tightly enough. Quentin marveled at the ease with which Eliot stepped into this role, the ease with which Quentin accepted it, and this time, as Eliot spoke, Quentin didn’t blush. He felt only a deep sense of security, of sureness. He nodded, his skull tilting back into Eliot’s palm. Something warm bloomed under his ribs when Eliot smiled at him, one thumb stroking the soft skin at his jaw.

"Okay, ground rules: Traffic lights, yeah?"

Quentin smiled. He leaned into the touch. "Red, yellow, green."

"I'm not interested in humiliation, either; I know how much you want to be good. So can we agree to stay on that side of things?"

"Yeah," Quentin said, already feeling himself slipping deeper into the role. "I want - god, El," he laughed.

"Hey," Eliot said, eyes bright and wide. "What do you want, baby?" There was a gentleness to the question that made Quentin want to fold up as small as he could manage, that made him want to hide inside Eliot, where he’d be safe, where he was _always_ safe.

"Yeah. I want - everything, honestly. I want you to take me out and open all the doors for me, order my food, tell me when I’m allowed to get up and come home, and, everything, I want to be whatever you want me to be." As he spoke, he kept his eyes on Eliot's, only occasionally letting his gaze flicker down to his mouth to observe the soft, predatory smile.

Eliot kissed his brow. When he spoke, his voice was soft but the tone of it had deepened. "I can do those things. You’ll have to let me be in charge though. You’ll have to let go, okay? Will you be good for me, Q?" 

Quentin sucked in a breath. He hadn't expected - hadn't intended - the way they were racing out of the gate, so fast he felt almost winded, like he needed to rest. But it was good, here in this place where he could already feel anxiety ebbing, replaced by a cool and steady determination to do what he was told, to be good.

"Yes, of course," he said, tucking his face into Eliot's neck. Eliot's grip tightened, firm at his nape.

"Yes what?" he said, barely a whisper against Quentin's ear. He shivered, his fingers tight where they held Eliot's jacket. If this was how the whole night was going to go he might actually, really die, might combust before he ever made it out the door. The ease with which Eliot slipped into the role made him even more eager to mold into his own.

"Yes, daddy."

Eliot's wandering fingers pulled tight at Quentin's hair, then. "You don’t have to call me that when we’re at dinner if you don’t want. I’d like it, and I like the little blush you have right now, but I know it’s a lot."

Quentin bit his lip as he smiled. "I’ll do my best. No promises."

"That's okay. And I," Eliots mouth curved down, half a frown, as he searched for words. It dimpled his cheek beautifully. "Before we get too far down this road, I wondered - you said you liked it, last time, when I spanked you just a little bit. Want to try that again after dinner?" His breath was hot behind Quentin's ear, on his neck, intense and private. "Use your words, sweetheart. It's important that I hear you."

Quentin left a kiss on Eliot's neck as he straightened. "Yeah, that - I want that. I liked how your hands felt on my ass."

"Only if you're really good, though, okay?" His voice had a playful lilt and Quentin was grateful for the way that Eliot eased them into this game. He nodded. Eliot checked his tie a final time, securing the brass bar he’d gotten Quentin years ago, for mentor week. He’d thought it over the top at first but the way that Eliot touched it, now, the small and obvious pleasure he drew from it, well. It was worth it.

The air between them shifted. Where before Quentin felt eager, ready to jump into whatever Eliot asked of him, now he felt a steady hum of tension as they gathered their coats and stepped outside. It held even as Eliot smiled when he opened the car door in front of him and while they stayed silent in the cab on the way to dinner, Eliot only speaking when Quentin began to nervously jiggle his leg.

"Patience, Q," he said. He hand was firm on Quentin’s thigh until he was still.

The tension held when they arrived at dinner. At restaurants, Quentin always tried to walked in behind Eliot, silently asking him to speak to the host. This time, Eliot opened the door for him, allowing him the first steps inside, and still subtly stepped in front of him to say his name, _7 o’clock_, with his fingers tangled in Quentin’s own. Quentin couldn’t hide the smile on his face when Eliot pulled his chair out of him and touched his cheek before he sat down.

This was Eliot’s element, Quentin knew. This restaurant, low-lit with minimal fixtures, clearly more expensive than the simple linens implied, was the sort of place he’d walked by as an undergrad and fantasized about but assumed he’d never see from the inside. Combined with the authority Quentin had handed him, it felt like witnessing an animal being released back into the wild.

"How do you feel about oysters?" Eliot asked, eyes glancing up from the simple, single-page menu. 

Quentin tilted his head. "Not any sort of way. I’m not sure I’ve ever had any that weren’t fried."

Eliot smiled serenely. "Will you share some with me?"

"Of course," Quentin said.

The oysters were small, briny things that Quentin enjoyed more than he expected to - though a large part of the pleasure came from watching Eliot delicately squeeze a lemon over one before passing it to Quentin, and after, the smile on Eliot's face as he ate his own. He seemed to derive a deep satisfaction, explaining that he'd first eaten bay oysters when he'd come to New York, that it was one of his first indulgences that affirmed his place outside of the Midwest. It made Quentin feel unexpectedly overcome, imagining Eliot at eighteen or nineteen, fresh-faced and skinny, trying on his new identity for size. Briefly, he slipped into a daydream that they had met in college, that Eliot had taken him back to his off-campus apartment and that they made clumsy love in the late morning before classes. He could picture it so easily: the cool, humid air, the inexplicably expensive bedding, the length of Eliot’s arm in a sunbeam. He would’ve taken Eliot to eat oysters then, too, if he could’ve.

"Q? You okay?" Eliot’s voice was endearingly concerned.

Quentin shook his head. "Yeah," he said. "Can I have another?"

When the shells were all empty and turned down, Quentin ate the sea bass that Eliot ordered for him, cutting the delicate meat only after Eliot nodded, and reveled in the weight of his gaze. He found it almost difficult to eat at all, the nervous excitement that tumbled around inside him leaving little room for his dinner. Once, Eliot reached across the table and wiped a drop of something - water or wine or sauce - briefly thumbing at the corner of Quentin’s mouth. He smiled at Quentin as he did it, and Quentin understood that it was a dare, a challenge that Eliot thought he wouldn’t be able to resist. It made him feel more than a little smug when he held firm and pushed Eliot’s hand away with the grace of a regency heroine.

Altogether, it strung Quentin tight as a new harp, set him on edge despite the bottle of wine they shared. He tried consciously to relax his muscles, tried to eat a good portion of his dinner. He wasn’t anxious, exactly, but he felt an increasing need to lie with his head in Eliot’s lap, to be touched, to be kissed. Despite the fact that barely two hours had passed since they’d stepped out of the cab, Quentin felt touch-starved, desperate for physical contact.

The feeling lasted even when they walked into the apartment and Eliot touched the small of his back. He sensed that Eliot wanted to slowly unspool him, that he would take his time, and he stood quietly while Eliot took his coat and hung it up. Briefly, he considered his shoes. He wasn't sure if he should take them off. In the end, he thought it best to wait for instruction.

"Check in, sweetheart?"

Quentin listed against him where they stood. "Green. Feeling very, I don’t know, tightly wound. But in a good way."

"Come here," Eliot said, all gentle command. "Let’s sit down."

Quentin shivered. He sat down beside Eliot and waited. 

"You know, I think I want to rest a while before we continue, maybe make some progress on that book you lent me. Will you keep me warm?" As he spoke, he gently pushed at Quentin's shoulder, maneuvering him so that Eliot could lean against one arm of the couch and stretch his legs.

Quentin slid down so that his cheek rested on Eliot's clothed thigh, his legs extended next to Eliot's. He watched, mesmerized, as Eliot unzipped his fly and took out his soft cock. Even like this, it was sizeable, heavy, and Quentin felt saliva pooling under his tongue as he thought about getting it in his mouth.

"Q? Will you do that for daddy? Keep me warm?" Eliot's voice was soothing, the firm undercurrent of demand notwithstanding. Quentin had almost forgotten this part of their game and felt his face grow hot as he watched Eliot gently stroke himself, not enough to get anywhere but enough to put on a show.

Quentin’s mouth watered as he nodded. "Yeah, daddy. Please," he said, his voice thick with want. "Yeah," he whispered, now, leaning forward, and felt a wave of something like comfort as Eliot fed him his cock, gently pressing into his open mouth. Quentin settled into the stretch, into the relief of instruction. 

"Good boy," Eliot sighed. He petted Quentin's hair before reaching for his book where it lay on the end table, and Quentin managed one last glimpse of his face before it disappeared behind the cover. He felt as though a curtain had been drawn, then, that it was just him and the weight of Eliot in his mouth.

So he allowed himself to focus - on the scratch of fabric against his cheek, on the warmth of Eliot's thigh, and keeping his jaw slack. He did his best not to move his tongue, to breathe evenly through his nose instead. He felt a sharp bolt of arousal as Eliot slowly thickened in his mouth and pressed against his throat and for a moment, it was almost impossible to resist pressing his hips against the cushions. But it felt better, he knew, to do what he was told. Even as drool threatened to escape the corner of his mouth, as his jaw ached, he kept still.

Eventually, Eliot softened again, enough that Quentin could press his nose to the short hair at the base of his cock. He breathed in the earthbound smell of him, the scents of skin and soap and _Eliot_, all these private things that no one else could know. He felt like someone had laid a thick blanket over him, weighing him down, enveloping him entirely. Quentin relaxed, increasingly liquid and not far from evaporating. His jaw slowly numbed and his weight bearing shoulder went from aching to tingling. He felt like his bones were being plucked from his body, one by one.

There was an immense comfort to the weight of Eliot in his mouth, the way it gave him something to focus on but didn’t ask anything of him. It forced his breathing steady. It was, bizarrely, like the inverse of a panic attack, those moments in which he couldn’t find air, didn’t know where to find his limbs. But here, his face pillowed against Eliot’s strong thigh, his soft but thick cock filling his mouth - he was sure of himself.

Once, ten or twenty minutes in, Quentin wasn’t sure, Eliot set his book aside. Quentin didn’t notice until his hand was in his hair, his fingertips smooth over his forehead.

"Color?" he asked.

Quentin pulled away, haphazardly wiped his mouth.

"Green," he said, and eagerly swallowed Eliot back down. He felt - almost indescribable, in the place he wanted to be. Like this, he could feel as Eliot tried to keep from getting hard, the press of the head against the back of his throat. He admired the effort, appreciated it, even - the way that Eliot tried to be good for him in his own way, even as Quentin laid in his lap and swallowed around his cock.

"Will you tell me again?" Eliot gently asked. He stroked the skin at Quentin's temple until he looked up.

"Green," he said, nuzzing at Eliot’s cock. "Green, daddy, I promise."

He pushed down the satisfaction he felt at Eliot’s shudder.

"My sweet boy," Eliot said. His thumb was at Quentin’s lips, pushing in, opening his jaw. "I’m getting cold."

Quentin sighed, lapping at Eliot’s thumb. Patiently as he could, he waited for Eliot to be ready, to decide he was allowed. When he finally did, Quentin almost moaned. The feeling of fullness made his whole body tense before it finally relaxed. Time seemed to lose meaning as Quentin's vision went hazy, lost as he was in sensation. He wasn't sure how much had passed by the time Eliot set the book down and pulled Quentin up to kiss him.

"You've been so good for me," Eliot finally said as he tucked himself back into his trousers. Quentin felt a spike of pleasure at the praise and resisted the urge to list against him, keeping his distance. "Don't you think good boys deserve rewards?" 

Sheepishly, Quentin nodded. A long moment passed before he found the courage to ask, "What do you think I deserve?" He braved looking up into Eliot's eyes, then, and found them wide and warm. Something in him pulled tight, a rubber band threatening to snap. More than anything, he wanted to be touched, to feel Eliot's hands on his skin.

"I think," Eliot said, leaning in to kiss him, "you deserve your spanking. You want it now?"

"Yes. Please," Quentin said, and tried not to sound too desperate. Eliot silenced him with another kiss, warm and wet.

"Unbuckle your belt, then."

Quentin took a deep breath and did what he was told, going no further than that. He wanted to say something, wanted to make sure he was doing this right, but felt suddenly paralyzed by a mixture of anxiety and desire, desperate not to fuck anything up. Insecurity tightened his stomach and his hands stayed frozen at his sides for a long moment. Before he realized it, he'd veered into an awkward silence.

"Q, sweetheart?"

He flexed his hands. "Yeah?"

"Where are you? You seem far away."

Frowning, he said, "Yellow." Even as he said it, he felt a little stupid, embarrassed. 

Eliot's finger hooked under his chin, tilting his face upward.

"You wanna tell me about it?"

Quentin sighed. This part of him - the part that so often grew anxious around intimacy, not because he was afraid of saying what he wanted, but because he was afraid of doing the wrong thing, of being disappointing - it was the loudest part of his brain, the most frustrating and panic-inducing and all he wanted really, was to be something, someone else, to be comfortable, to be enough. But it was too many things to say out loud, too many inarticulate things to find. He tried to focus, to root out the exact feeling. Eventually, he said, "I just want to be good enough for you."

"Oh, baby. Of course you are," Eliot said. There was something to his voice, something honest, like he'd reached into his lungs and cracked it open for Quentin to see. "You're so good." He pressed a kiss to Quentin's temple, trailing his lips down to his jaw, his neck. His palm felt huge where it cradled Quentin's skull to turn his face. "You want to stop?"

"No it - it feels good, being small?" He hoped he made sense, that Eliot could see with some clarity all of the fraught feelings he wanted to express. "I'm just scared I'm going to do something stupid and ruin it."

"You don't have to do anything, Q. Let me be in charge, remember? Let me take care of you."

Quentin allowed himself to breathe, then, to fill his lungs like he was emerging from the water. Here was Eliot, who somehow loved every broken part of him, even when he had to hold him together with his own hands. This was love without conditions, Quentin realized. This was what it felt like to be held.

"Okay," he said, and blew out a big breath. "Green. I trust you."

"Come here," Eliot said. He leaned back into the sofa and tugged at Quentin's arm. "Over my legs."

A little awkwardly, Quentin shuffled over so that his knees and elbows were astride Eliot's lap. He didn't resist when Eliot pushed between his shoulder blades and used the other hand to tug at his belt, until his pants were tight around his thighs. His cock, still soft, wouldn't be able to find any friction where it lay trapped between his legs. The restraint of it all set Quentin's head spinning.

"Good?" Eliot asked. He soothed a hand over Quentin's bare skin, rubbed gently at Quentin's neck with the other. When Eliot's hand dipped between his legs, fingers grazing gently behind his balls, he gasped. The touch faded quickly as Eliot's fingers moved toward his hole.

"Fuck, yeah - green."

"I'm gonna start easy, okay?"

Quentin's stomach tightened with anticipation. The last time they'd done this, it hadn't taken long for Quentin to get hard, hadn't been more than a few minutes before he was humping the bed. He'd loved the sting of it, how Eliot alternated between the sharp flat of his palm and his broad, soothing fingers; he'd loved Eliot's gentle, encouraging voice, and how it belied how turned on he was, how the only thing that had given him away was when he'd paused to press his cock between Quentin's closed thighs. It was that night that made Quentin first think he might understand Eliot's urge to control and protect, that made him think he might be able to give something like that to Eliot - that he might be able to give in to his own neediness in the process. Quentin felt so safe, so sure, so absolutely taken care of, that after he'd ruined the quilt and Eliot's come was dripping down his thighs, he found himself already hungry for more.

Eliot's hand landed - not softly, exactly, but without much force. The sharp sound of it still made Quentin's hips twitch.

"Color?" Eliot asked.

"Extremely green. Like. Grass green. Bright fucking, LED traffic light green." He laughed, already breathless, his cock filling where it was squeezed between his legs.

"You ready for more?"

"Yes," Quentin sighed. 

"I'm so proud of you," Eliot said, and brought his hand down with more force.

It didn't take long - or maybe it did, he couldn't be sure - until Quentin lost track of time again. With each smack, his face pressed harder into the cushions. His cock ached between his legs, heavy and leaking, and he felt desperate, needed impossibly more.

"Please, please touch me," Quentin gasped after a hard slap.

"You know the magic word, baby."

Underneath the sweat that already gathered in the small of his back, Quentin felt a flush redden his skin. This was what he'd offered, what he'd promised, what he _wanted_, and it was still so hard to say. He inhaled shakily and turned his head so that he was almost face down, eyes shut tight.

"Daddy, please - _please_, touch me, please, I need you in me, please, daddy, I can't -"

"Touch you where?"

"Fuck, my ass, please, daddy."

The words sent something hot flooding through him. He gasped when he felt Eliot's hands spreading him open and let out a low, pathetic whine when he felt the drip of Eliot's saliva over his hole. The feeling turned him on until it was almost painful, and when he imagined how he must look, exposed, spit-slick and filthy, Eliot's hands prising him apart, he couldn't stop himself from folding at the waist. There was nothing more he wanted in that moment than to be opened up, _filled up_, and he let out a few helpless sounds. Then, finally, there was the press of Eliot's thumb, not in but still pressing, firm and intent. Quentin bit fruitlessly at the cushion, fighting to keep his hips still.

"Good boy," Eliot said, and tapped his thumb.

"Oh, _fuck_," Quentin groaned.

As suddenly as it came, the feeling was gone, replaced by a another sharp smack against his cheeks. This one was hard enough that Quentin shifted forward, his stubble scraping against the cushion.

"Look at you," Eliot said and Quentin felt almost on the verge of tears, exposed and pathetic as Eliot rubbed his thumb back over his hole. "I wish you could see yourself, sweetheart. You're all red and needy. God, you want my dick so badly, don't you?" Another slap, crisp sound of it filling the room.

"Please," Quentin said. His voice was muffled where his face was smashed against the couch. He no longer knew what he was asking for. He wanted Eliot to tell him what he wanted, what he needed.

He sighed when he finally felt the tip of Eliot's thumb dip into his body.

"Let's get you to bed, huh?" Eliot said, pulling away to rub a firm circle. "Get you all opened and ready for me. Does that sound good?"

Quentin nodded, felt his own cooling drool against his cheek as he did. "Yeah."

With an ease that implied magic, Eliot lifted Quentin up, holding him close to his chest. He felt absurdly small as he wrapped his arms around Eliot's neck, his limbs gone so badly to jelly that he could barely find the strength.

A century later, Quentin found himself facedown on the bed, his trousers finally gone and his jacket lost somewhere along the way. All that remained was his shirt, rucked up and sweat-soaked. He nuzzled the crook of his own elbow and waited, listening to the domestic sounds of Eliot washing his hands and opening drawers, collecting supplies. He floated in a space between overwhelming arousal, heavy and urgent in his gut, and a soft, pillowy happiness, a thing that made him want to giggle until he floated away.

"Hey, sweetheart," Eliot said, when he finally settled on his knees astride Quentin's hips. "Color?"

"Still green. More of like, I don't know. Soft river-water green. But still, definitely green."

The smile was audible in Eliot's voice when he said, "I'm so impressed with you."

Quentin hummed, wiggled his ass. "Yeah?"

"Mhm." Eliot's hands moved smooth and steady up his back, beneath his shirt. "You ready for more?"

"Please."

As quickly as Quentin answered, Eliot's hands were back at his ass, kneading, spreading. Quentin shuddered at the feeling of cool air against his skin, opening his mouth against his arm when he heard the click of a plastic cap being removed. He let out a long, contented sigh when Eliot's fingertip teased at his rim.

"God, Q," Eliot’s voice was deep, his breath shuddering in a way that made Quentin feel a surge of pride. It would never stop being gratifying, the feeling of power, the knowledge that he could make Eliot ache with want just by existing. 

Eliot’s finger slipped in easily. It was a familiar, comfortable thing to Quentin now, to be touched like this, to touch like this. He was grateful for Eliot’s long, dextrous fingers, that cast spells with the grace he envied, that held him and touched him in all the ways he wanted.

"How’s that?" Eliot asked, crooking his finger toward Quentin’s prostate. His toes curled.

"Fuck - really, it’s really good,"

He knew that Eliot was weak for this, that nothing set him off quite like Quentin laid out and shaking. He knew that the sight of him, legs spread, subtly shifting his hips, made something in Eliot go peculiar and soft at the same time it sent power coursing through him. It was here, in this act of vulnerability, that Quentin found his place.

"Ready?"

"Yeah, green, please, c’mon,"

Eliot seemed to pause, then. His mouth was hot in the crease of Quentin’s neck and he thought that he could feel him smile, the dimpling of his cheeks and the flat press of his teeth.

"Up here," Eliot said. He shifted so that his back was against the headboard and patted his thighs. "In daddy’s lap."

Some part of Quentin wanted to laugh. A bigger, weaker - or maybe stronger - part of him sat up and crawled on top of Eliot instead. He waited while Eliot undid the buttons of his shirt, breathing steadily through his nose, and sighed when Eliot let his shirt fall to the floor. Then Eliot’s hands were firm against the backs of his thighs and he let himself fall into them, be cradled.

"Ready?" Eliot asked as he urged Quentin up. He felt it as Eliot reached between their bodies to line himself up.

"Yeah," he said. "C’mon daddy, fuck me."

"Brat," Eliot laughed, and lowered Quentin onto his cock.

Immediately, he gasped. The pressure of it, the push and pull of the - the sense of fullness, the being together - and he collapsed against Eliot. This was the apex of what he’d wanted, he realized, to be handled, to be taken care of, to be fucked without thinking. He hoped that it was what Eliot wanted, too, and was almost certain of it.

"How’s that feel, sweetheart?"

"God, you feel, you feel so fucking good," Quentin said as his cock dragged over Eliot’s stomach. It was electric, the feeling between his legs, like he'd been split open and put back together, held firm in Eliot's hands.

"Yeah, you like how big I am in you?"

"Yeah," he sighed, filling the word with far more syllables than it warranted. 

He raised up on his knees, holding onto Eliot’s shoulders for leverage. The feeling was still - there was so much _pressure_, an intensity of feeling that he couldn't deny. Eliot's size was part of it, certainly, but it was something more - the angle, the way he brought himself fully down on his knees, the way Eliot's hands slipped against his sweat-slick hips. It all set his heart racing, his hands seeking frantic, frenetic contact with Eliot's shoulders and back.

He pressed his face into Eliot's neck as he drove into him. There was a tectonic shift as Eliot adjusted his knees and suddenly Quentin felt his spine light up, like his vertebrae were on a closed circuit. He did his best to hold on, with his hands and with his mouth, feeling every movement of Eliot’s body through his skin and down to his bones.

"Oh my god, El, _Eliot_," he groaned, tangling his fingers in the damp curls at his nape. 

"Yeah, I'm here, come on, baby, that's it." His hips snapped hard under Quentin's thighs and it pushed Quentin’s cock more deliberately against his belly. He hadn’t touched himself at all, hadn’t needed to, and he could feel the steady beat of need and want beginning to crest inside him.

Eliot brought a hand up to his jaw, holding firm. He held his face so that Quentin couldn't look away and it - it was unbearable in the best way, to be held so tightly, to be forced to face this kind of love. He felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude, that Eliot was alive and Eliot was here and Eliot wanted him, somehow, that Eliot considered him a gift, and Eliot's mouth was on his in a biting kiss, the scrape of his teeth demanding and giving all the same. Quentin felt another shift as Eliot pulled his knees up, giving himself more leverage, and didn’t stop kissing him as he moved. Then Eliot’s hands were back under his thighs, pulling him apart, opening him up.

Quentin moaned into Eliot’s mouth. "Fuck, El, I’m close, I can’t, I need,"

"What do you need, baby?"

"I need, fuck, I need you to touch me."

Eliot hummed, somehow, like that was something people just _did _, made thoughtful noises when they were buried into the hilt inside of another person. "You need to ask nicely. Maybe then I'll let you come."

Quentin was struck dumb. He rutted forward frantically, searching for friction, until Eliot straightened so that his back was flat against the headboard. It meant that absolutely nothing touched Quentin's cock and then - Eliot, the worst person in the world, the absolute biggest tease and cruelest man that ever lived, stopped moving. Quentin rocked in his lap and whined.

"Be good," Eliot chided. He grasped Quentin's thighs, digging his fingers into the muscle to just the right side pain, until Quentin stilled. "Use your words."

Quentin thought he might collapse. Eliot couldn't possibly expect him to find words right now, let alone _those_ words. It didn't matter that he'd asked, that he'd promised, because it was too much for him in this melted, messy state. It would be too much for anyone but it was worse, Quentin was sure, because Eliot knew him, knew all of his secret buttons and how to hold him just so; he knew how Quentin liked his hips tightly gripped, the tender place beneath his jaw sucked and bit; how he liked it slow and deep until he was close, when he liked it faster and a little rough. But if Eliot knew him so well, then he knew, too, that nothing satisfied Quentin more deeply than doing what he was told, than being good, and that he would do just that in the end.

"Please, please let me come," Quentin said, swallowing whatever remained of his pride. "Daddy, _please_."

"Thank you, sweetheart," Eliot said, breathless. Then his hand was gone from Quentin's hip and his thumb moved slick over the head and slit of Quentin's cock, so sensitive that he half-cried out before he felt the tension in his belly begin to uncoil, until it felt like his body was actually coming loose from itself, its contingent parts fraying and falling apart like so much worn cloth.

He got his mouth onto Eliot's neck to taste the salt of him there and it was just enough and too much all at once. He came with a sharp gasp and a sob as Eliot held him through it.

Quentin went like a rag doll when Eliot flipped him over, still lost in the haze of feeling. Slowly, the blood rushing in his ears quieted and he heard Eliot speaking, his voice warm and urgent behind him.

"You did so well, Q," Eliot said as Quentin felt him slide back in. "You were so good for me, fuck, I -"

Eliot seemed to lose his words completely, then, dissolving into a mess of sloppy but sure thrusts, his arm firm under Quentin's chest and his breath hot against his ear, a stream of what Quentin realized, giddy, were sweet nothings: _You're amazing, you have no idea, you were so - you have no idea what you do to me, sweetheart, you have absolutely no idea_ followed by his hand squeezing at Quentin's hip and _Fuck, I love you so much, you're it for me, I love -_

Quentin smiled when he felt Eliot still and couldn't help the giggle that bubbled up in him when he heard the tell-tale laugh that meant Eliot was coming back to Earth.

For a long time, they lay in relative silence. Quentin listened as Eliot’s breathing slowed beside him, felt his own lungs expand less with each breath. He reached out and smoothed back Eliot’s sweat-soaked hair and felt a burst of fondness when Eliot smiled, his eyes still closed, and reached up to take Quentin’s hand. Still, they stayed quiet, even as their messy bodies cooled and they were able to draw closer together, a tangle of limbs and damp hair.

"Come on, Q, let's get cleaned up," Eliot eventually said. Quentin leaned against him on jellied legs as they made their way to the bathroom and into the shower.

Once under the water, Eliot held him close. He thought he might fall asleep right there, pressed up against Eliot's chest. Never in his life had he been so sure of his place, in the world and everything larger. He struggled for a few minutes to stay upright, until Eliot shut off the water and conscientiously toweled him dry.

"Good birthday present?" Quentin asked once they laid down and he felt capable of words again.

"Oh my god, Q, that was," Eliot laughed, one arm thrown over his eyes, "fuck, it was so good. You're so hot when you're all squirmy like that."

"Yeah?" Quentin sidled up against Eliot's side, cupped his balls, ran his hand up the fuzz of Eliot's stomach and chest. Eliot's wet hair fanned out under his face and absurdly, he thought of osmosis, of the girl in high school biology that had corrected his usage of the word. He wanted to touch Eliot all over, to somehow diffuse his love through Eliot's skin. 

"Yeah," Eliot sighed. He turned to face Quentin, then, his eyes loving and tired and, Quentin could see, a little sad, brown and golden and deep. He said, "You promise I didn't hurt you?"

Quentin's heart went tight. It seemed that no matter how much he reassured Eliot, he would always be a little afraid. It was, in some ways, the same sort of fear Quentin felt - of being too much, of needing and wanting too much, of those needs and desires being hurtful, damaging to someone he loved. 

"Of course you didn't, El," he whispered. "You never could." He settled his hand on Eliot's cheek and pulled him in for a kiss.

Eliot sighed, a thing that should've been heavy but was light, relieved. "Well, that's not true, but thank you. I - honestly? I like being bossy. I like taking care of you."

"My bossy daddy," Quentin laughed. It was easier to say now, in this perfect in-between space. "You're really good at it, though. At all of it."

"I've never been sure, especially, you know. After everything. But it feels good to take care of you in all these little ways, to be allowed. I like when you trust me. Not to get all Freudian, but I can trust myself to take care of you and give you what you need, which isn't something I can always trust myself to do for, you know, myself."

Eliot slid down so that his head rested on Quentin's belly. His hair was drying in wild curls that Quentin knew he'd regret in the morning, but the fact that he didn't care just now made Quentin feel a little warm, a little spoiled. Then Eliot nosed at his soft cock, briefly took it into his mouth until Quentin laughed and tangled one hand in his hair.

"Too sensi - quit it," he laughed. He could feel Eliot’s laughter against his skin and relaxed his hand only when he felt Eliot nuzzle at his pubic bone."You’re so weird," he said, pushing him away, still laughing.

"You smell good. You’re you." Briefly, Quentin felt his fingers squeeze at the soft flesh of his waist. "I love your dick, it’s perfect. And this," he said, dipping his fingers between Quentin’s legs, where he was still soft and wet and open. "I know you don’t think you’re sexy but you are."

Before Quentin realized it, his legs spread of their own accord. He sighed when Eliot pushed two fingers inside him, casually, without intent. "You’re gorgeous," Eliot said. His touch was so intimate, so unassuming that Quentin couldn't find a reason why he shouldn't enjoy it. "I’m gonna wake you up tomorrow by eating you out, if that’s okay. I didn’t get to do that tonight."

"Be my guest," Quentin laughed, barely audible. He let himself relax into Eliot's hands, into his steady touch. For a while, they lay like that, Eliot moving his fingers just so. Quentin had the sensation of being petted, almost, ridiculous as it was. Affection was a strange thing, something he never expected to have in any form. That it occasionally came in the form of Eliot's fingers moving softly inside of him felt only natural now.

"You know," Quentin said when Eliot returned from washing his hands. "I can't always do it for myself, either - take care of myself, I mean. You know that but it's worth saying because, I just, I'm not bullshitting you, it feels really good. I love being good for you, I love doing what you tell me. It's, I don't know. Think of it as meditation, honestly? I go totally blank. All my misfiring dendrites or whatever just, they finally shut the fuck up. Like, imagine there was this ocean constantly sloshing around inside your head, and it's storming, and there's a tsunami, there are sharks, I don't know. That’s what it’s like for me." He took a deep breath, watched as Eliot’s head rose where it lay against his belly. "Then you come in and just - it stops. For a while, I can let go and it's smooth sailing. I can just sit on the deck and look out over the water and feel at peace."

Eliot laid a kiss beneath his navel. "It feels really good for me, too. I feel. Well. I feel good about myself when I can do it for you. All I want is for you to feel a little better, for as long as you can. Thank you, sweetheart."

"Thank _you._"

"Mm, it's my birthday, I'm supposed to be thanking you," Eliot said, looking up at Quentin from where he still laid on his belly. Like this, Quentin could see his dark lower lashes, the particular divot of his chin.

Quentin scoffed, smiling. "Whatever you say, Waugh."

"_Coldwater_-Waugh," Eliot said, poking his ribs.

"Coldwater-Waugh," Quentin agreed. He brushed the hair from Eliot's forehead and let the wave of feeling - of gratefulness, of joy - overcome him.


End file.
